Many a moon ago, I, filling in for our increasingly [and now totally] absent book maven, posted that I thought George Eliot’s Middlemarch contained just about everything a novel could.

A recent post on The New Yorker‘s book blog agrees:

I can’t think of a writer who more completely—and more compassionately—captures the texture and the complexity of intimate human action and motivation. Sometimes I feel as if everything that is worth knowing about love and marriage (and maybe about everything else, too) can be learned from reading “Middlemarch.”



2 Responses to “Middlemarching”

  1. jazzbumpa Says:

    Hmmmm. Maybe I’ll check it out.

    Right now I’m in the middle of a reread (after many years) of Poul Anderson’s classic from 1960: The High Crusade. (Hey – can’t play trombone all the time.) Space aliens land in rural England in 1357, and the locals kick their fat blue asses all over the universe. Not laugh-out-loud hilarious, but pretty damned amusing.

  2. urbino Says:

    The author’s name sounds familiar, but I don’t think I’m familiar with the book. Sounds like a hoot.

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